(Sherlock) A Day in the Life at 221B
by Wholocked-the-tardis
Summary: A day in a life at 221B is hardly normal- no matter the day! But why has Sherlock been ignoring Johns calls? What is this mysterious package that's arrived at the flat? Will Sherlock ever stop shooting holes in the wall?


John glanced at the illuminated screen of his phone.

_Still no reply._

He slid it into his jacket pocket, giving up the idea that Sherlock might reply to his barrage of texts. He'd been trying to contact him for the past half hour. No answer, not even rude, witty remarks degrading his intelligence.

_This was highly out of character._

John supposed Sherlock might of turned his phone off, became engrossed in his work or something. It had happened before.

John rummaged around for his keys, balancing the shopping he was carrying. It wasn't like anyone else was going to go to the shops and buy milk. Fumbling, he slid the key into the lock, hearing the familiar click of the black door to 221B. Letting the door close behind him with a snap, he made his way up the rickety stairs.

"I'm back Mrs. Hudson." He called out.

Mrs. Hudson's faint greeting emerged from her flat.

"Haven't seen Sherlock have you?" John asked.

She popped around the door looking slightly flustered. "No, he disappeared upstairs an hour or two ago. It's been awfully quiet...very suspicious if you ask me."

John couldn't help but agree with her on that.

"Tea dear?"

"Er- No thanks, I'll skip it."

"Tell Sherlock he's welcome to pop in a for a cuppa." smiled. "Oh! Just remembered, a delivery man, nice young fellow, came around. Carried a rather large package upstairs. Sherlock signed for it. How he paid for it..." She trailed off disapprovingly.

John furrowed his eyebrows, he was positive he hadn't ordered anything, and was quite sure Sherlock hadn't.

"Also, would you remind him to do something about that broken window." She added sternly. "He's biffed something at a pedestrian again."

"_Again!_" John stared in disbelief then rolled his eyes. "Right- yeah, I'll tell him that now actually."

He marched up the stairs, pausing when he heard calling from the bottom. "And I think that lunatic put several more holes in my wall!"

"Right."

"I'm not his housekeeper!" She bustled away, muttering under her breath.

John hauled the plastic bags into the living room of their shared flat, dropping them onto the wooden table that sat centre of the small kitchen.

He peered into the fridge, closing it again with a snap.

_Best not knows what new specimen was sitting beside the groceries this week._

"I've told you before- is it really necessary to keep-" He risked a glance back in the fridge. "Ears! Are those ears!"

_No reply._

"Sherlock, you there?"

The flat remained silent, pale grey light seeped in through the windows overlooking the street. Dust motes drifting wearily, dodging through the cluttered chaos of a living room.

_But no Sherlock._

John glanced around the empty room, frowning. said Sherlock had returned to the flat, she didn't mention that he left. John peered into the bedrooms, his just in case.

On returning to the living room he sat firmly down in the nearest armchair and picked up an untouched newspaper sitting on the coffee table. He sighed, detecting the slight tang of burned gun powder in the air. He glanced up at the slightly tacky flocked wallpaper. Which now boasted eight new bullet holes to match the old set.

He groaned.

John heaved himself from the low armchair, strode to the wall. He traced the rough edges of the bullet holes, inspecting the damage- cursing fluently under his breath.

"_Damn it_."

He faltered, his eyes weren't staring at the wall anymore.

"How the- _what_?"

In place of their old TV sat a brand new flat screen. A large sound system placed haphazardly on the floor. A large cardboard box discarded to the side.

John noticed his own baffled expression reflected in the ink black screen of the TV.

"How the _hell_ did he afford this! He doesn't even watch telly!" He shook his head in disbelief.

A price tag didn't need to tell him how much it cost. _It looked expensive._ Money taken out of his account he presumed, money he had worked hard overtime at the hospital to earn.

He yanked his phone from his pocket, punching in a short text message.

**WHY IS THERE A NEW TV IN THE LIVING ROOM? -JW**

"I'm going to kill him. _Jesus_."

They'd only received the rent and electricity bill the other day, and were dangerously short of money.

John jabbed the send button, striding to the door, pulling his jacket back on. His hand was barely on the doorknob when a muffled noise echoed across the room.

_Bleep._

He recognised it as the short text tone of Sherlock's mobile. He turned slowly to the empty flat.

_Had Sherlock left his phone behind?_ Seemed out of character he noted. _Dropped it?_

He typed another short message and hit send.

**I think you've left your phone at the flat. -JW**

_Bleep._

The sound cut across the silence again. This time there was no mistaking it, despite being muffled, it was definitely Sherlock's text tone.

John searched the room for the missing phone. He stuffed his hands frown the sides of the sofa, the armchair, scanned the mountains of junk scaling to the low ceiling.

John stopped his search. His eyes fell on the large cardboard box lying in the centre of the room.

_Perhaps he'd dropped it in the box, fallen out of his pocket, when he was assembling the TV? _

John ripped open the cardboard flaps, expecting to find the mobile sitting on the bottom.

"Mind making me a coffee? I'm busy." Sherlock glanced up at him.

He was sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, conserving space in the cardboard box, barely deep enough for a man to sit in.

John opened his mouth, taken aback. "Busy- wh- Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

"Sitting in a box what does it look like I'm doing."

John just stared at him, baffled. "Why?"

"Urgh... was hoovering, most annoying habit. Noise was ghastly. I could barely hear myself think."

John gritted his teeth in irritation, "Let me get this straight. You brought a brand new TV- _with my money_- just so you could sit in the box?"

"Well of coarse, where else would I have got it? Do use your common sense." Sherlock said in disdain. "Now, do you mind closing those flaps again- the lights bothering me."

John shook his head, picking up his laptop. "You know what, I've given up. This doesn't even surprise me anymore."

"John- john, close the flaps!"

He strode through the flat door, ignoring Sherlock's comment.

"John- where are you going!?"

"Out."

Sherlock fumbled with the flaps, trying desperately to close them again, shouting out at his retreating friend.

_"John! Stop, you're letting light into my mind palace!"_


End file.
